


2016 LDWS fics!

by beaubete



Series: ficlets and drabbles [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 22:57:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6303466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of six drabbles from the 00Q Last Drabble Writer Standing 2016.</p><p>1 - genre: canon; theme: game; 100 words<br/>2 - prompt: "bet you didn't expect this"; 200-250 words<br/>3 - genre: AU; prompt: trope role reversal; 300 words<br/>4 - prompt: fantasy; 150 words<br/>5 - genre: historical AU; prompt: trouble; 250 words<br/>6 - prompt: trust; 300 words</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1 - Be a Lady

“—if there’s nothing else—?”

There’s always been something elegant about baccarat that’s brought to mind, well, men like Bond, if he’s honest: smoking jackets and the fragrant blue cloud of tobacco in a dimly-lit train carriage as it wends its way through the Alps.  Apparently it’s meant all the same marks of mid-century masculinity to Martinez, too, as he pinches the rear of the pretty girl on his lap and deals the cards.  Q glares at Bond, daring him to get a clever idea, and Bond grins, unapologetic as he tips his jaw up and taps it.

“Kiss for luck?”


	2. An Ounce of Prevention

At five, there’s no need for a five year plan.  No one thinks about what they’ll be doing at ten when they’re five.  It’s pretty rote that it won’t be much different: he’ll be in school; he’ll still eat his monster munch from his fingertips like the little boy he’ll still be.  But even at five, five years can change the world—at ten, he’s alone, Mummy and Dad gone and on his way to Wales and Aunt Dot.

At fifteen, the future’s about things you want to happen, about planning and ignoring the things that don’t suit those plans.  He’ll be in Uni, he’ll have a girlfriend, he’ll be cool.  At fifteen, a five year plan is a confused boy who’s been scorned for kissing a handsome classmate pretending that someday he won’t have to hide in the computer labs during lunch.

At twenty-five, a five year plan doesn’t matter.  He’s got a boyfriend who fucks him dizzy between bouts of speed-fueled hacking binges—he hacks the Chinese, he hacks MI5, he hacks Amazon and sends himself a lovely birthday present.  Who needs a future when the world is all burning?

At thirty-five, he’s come full-circle; a family: a partner, two cats.  Q—he’s Q now—looks at Bond and smiles.  Bond cocks a brow.  “Penny for them?”

“Bet you didn’t expect this,” Q says, “as a kid, I mean.”

Bond hums thoughtfully.  “No.  You?  You prepare for everything.  You must have known forever how you’d be as a grownup.”

“You’d be surprised.”


	3. Property

The slave is—  
“Exquisite.” The word breathes itself from Q’s lips unwilling, and his host leers appreciatively.   
“You think so? Oh, I’ll admit he’s handsome enough, before all,” Walliams gestures, and Q takes in his meaning—the slave’s body is covered in scars, from the webbed snarl at his shoulder to the innocuous appendectomy just above his tiny blue pants—“that. And he’s a marvel in the bed; he can fuck for hours. But he’s terrible about the fighting. If he weren’t such a beast I’d have had him gelded long ago, but just keeping him around keeps the girls in line—he loves a cunt.”  
Q’s lip curls, but he can’t hide his fascination. “Oh?”  
Walliams’s brow dips in understanding. “Oh, he’s biddable enough. I think with the right encouragement he’d do whatever you want. Not long-term, though. He’s not one for taming.”  
“I rather think I could try it,” Q says loftily, and Walliams’s leer is back.  
“After a sample, then, are you?”   
From there it’s negotiations: where and how long; how he can treat the slave—beating is permitted, as is scarification, under the understanding that anything that detracts from the sellable value will incur a fee, but not outright death; how to call for assistance should he require it. Eventually he’s led to a discreet room and the slave chained so that Q may take his pleasure safely.   
Walliams watches him stroke the slave to hardness through his pants; it isn’t until Q’s eyes flit up to him through his lashes as he kneels, the slave’s bared cock in hand and pointed at his face, that Walliams ducks out, laughing about shyness.  
The slave is still, impotent fury rolling off him in waves. Q pauses, wets his lips.  
“Listen to me very carefully, Double-oh Seven: I’m here to rescue you.”


	4. +4 Charisma

Overhead, the sky peals with thunder, each booming burst of it loud enough shake the intrepid little band huddled below.  

“Why is it always raining?” Bond complains.  It’s the third time he’s complained about this since their quest began, and if they didn’t need a paladin on their journey so badly—

“It’s not always raining,” Q tells him.  Again.  Tanner and Eve exchange wary looks.

“It is.  My hauberk doesn’t work properly when it’s wet,” Bond continues, and—

“Your hauberk is a great stabby thing on the end of a stick!” Q snaps.  “I’m pretty sure it works just the same whether it’s damp or not.”

“But the orcish enchantment—”

“Oh my god,” Q moans.  He’s pretty sure Eve and Tanner are snickering at them by now.  “Why are you even with us on this quest again?”

Tanner coughs.  “Because the guide book suggested we needed at least four players?”


	5. Friend, Enter

He sees the kid, needle-thin and sharp, and his first instinct screams: “protect”.  It’s made all the worse by those doe’s eyes all rimmed in kohl and glittering with storm-coloured mischief like the crackle of far-off lightning.  Bond’s thunderstruck.  He leans against the bar.

“What’ll it be, Mr Dick?”  The kid’s got a tenor voice, sweet and high, a voice that sits perched in the base of his throat instead of buried in his guts; it takes Bond a moment before he realises he’s been made, but when he does, the kid is cool, still rubbing at the bar with his rag.

Bond’s got a choice here.  He could sit back, watch the raid go off, and these slick johnnies will all go down in about an hour, taking the kid with them.  The kid would do hard time if his financial investors don’t help him out.  Pretty boy like this, and he’d be passed like a party favour.  Or.

He leans in confidentially.  “You’re in for a world of hurt if you don’t hit the road, kid.  Forty minutes, tops.”

The kid’s smile is wicked.  He pours a whisky.  “Is this a raid?”

“Damned straight,” Bond agrees.  “I can’t see you go down for liquor, an upstanding young man as yourself.”

The kid pauses, licks his red lips.  “Why tell me?”  Bond shrugs.  

The kid’s kiss is quick, hot against the side of his face as he ducks around the bar—“Thanks.  You’re a peach.”—and he’s gone.

Bond drinks.


	6. Oranges and Lemons

Not once; never has he doubted—he’s just not meant for that whole business.  His white picket fence is made of razor wire.  

And he’s never really wanted it.  Oh, he thought he did with Vesper, thought he wanted a sunshiny retirement, wanted peace and quiet and the dazzling light reflected from the canals of Venice on pale, elegant skin.

And he thought he wanted it with Madeleine.  He thought he wanted the baked heat of Morocco, wanted the gleam of her teeth by the moonlight, wanted soft, barely-there whispers in sweet, sibilant French.  But really, what could he do with it?

What could James Bond do with a home?  He could ruin it.  He could leave his sidearm on the kitchen table where it reminds him of violence every time he sees it.  He could track blood in the hall at three in the morning.  He could stay gone so long that every word of love is months too late.  He could come home smelling like another woman.

But Q smiles at him from the window seat—he uses it mostly when it’s raining, and only to crow about staying warm and dry while he watches people rush around in the wet—and Bond wants.  

He wants pale English summertime, too weak to colour pasty skin.  He wants smug grins and victory dances when the sandwich wrapper lands in the bin on the first throw.  He wants.

And he leaves his sidearm on the kitchen table, but it doesn’t remind him of violence because it ends up covered in piles of weapons blueprints.  He tracks blood in the hall at three in the morning and comes back from the haze of bloodlust to gentle hands.  He hears words of love whispered directly into his ear from miles away.  He smells like bergamot.


End file.
